


Time

by susiephalange



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Credence Barebone Deserves Better, F/M, Female pronouns, Female!Reader - Freeform, Fluff, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, MACUSA | Magical Congress of the United States of America, Ministry of Magic, Movie 1: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them Spoilers, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2018-11-09 05:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11097960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/susiephalange/pseuds/susiephalange
Summary: Come summer, winter, spring or autumn, you're still a witch, and you're still in love with Credence Barebone.Previously titledSeasons.





	1. Seasons

**Author's Note:**

> I had a yearning. And then I wrote. Buh-bye, writer's block!

In the summertime, the city smells of sweat and gasoline from the automobiles and the sun sets later and later as the days go by. Perhaps it was the inner romantic inside of you who read too much poetry and found time in the day to do the chores without magic to see beauty in everything. Not that summer wasn’t your favourite season, well, maybe, but every season was so wonderful. Most witches and wizards must earn their magical abilities, or at least, wake them up – you’ve heard of the pureblood families trying to compel their children toward their inherited skills through… _less than favourable_ means. But you didn’t. You came screaming into the world as a babe the year after a bad bout of Dragon Pox in the area, and not too soon after the nurses and midwives cleaned you up, you were making things fly around and lights grow from your hands.

The Magical Congress of the United States of America, and even the Ministry of Magic (their interference thanks to your half-blooded nature, your father a British No-Maj) had their say, and because of all the magic that was cast to keep your mother alive, you’d become an anomaly of nature, and were by law to be home-schooled, and often checked-in on by a representative of the congress.

No matter. That was life, and life happens. Now at nineteen, you’d done all your learning, and though you were a more powerful witch than anyone had ever anticipated, you kept to yourself. No need getting noticed by anyone for the wrong reasons, no need being caught up in the politics of the heretic incendiary Grindelwald. Your mother had lived out her years teaching you, and now, retired herself with a sum from MACUSA and moved to Florida and married an ex-Quidditch player. Your father was in London, driving a taxi. And you ran an at-home apothecary.

Mostly, you sold all sorts of healing potions and basic No-Maj medicines (and under the table, medicinal alcohols), but there were times when you followed the spell books you ordered from London, and on request made…other things. It wasn’t like there were any rival stores in New York, and even with the wizarding trading system, and the trap-streets that withheld non-magical eyes from seeing the wizarding stores and shopfronts. It was a modest income that kept you in your little apartment above the No-Maj barber’s shop, and it was a pleasant life. All seasons of the year it be.

But even as a sort of romantic who saw beauty in most things, there was something you couldn’t, for the life of you, love. Not for any money in the world. The history books stated that the witch hunts ended in 1690. But in the neighbourhood that you lived in, there was an evil stirring.

The New Salem Philanthropic Society was led by the headstrong Mrs. Barebone. Her shouting would never cease, her flyers everywhere, her stench clinging to the curtains like cigarette smoke days after it was snuffed out. But what truly made your stomach roll was the way she treated her children. You had never in your life been treated like those children had, no – you had been raised to know you were loved, that you were safe, and warm and that the next morning, you still would be loved. Without even abusing your magical abilities, you could see it in her adopted children’s faces, that they were not raised the same. The hatred their mother had for magical folk overtook nurture, her vision crisp, her children wilting. Many a time you’d be forced to walk by the rallies when delivering a potion, unable to do anything but hear her terrifying words. Perhaps it was because she spoke so lowly of witches and wizards. Or, perhaps it was because there was a look in her eye that suggested she would stop at nothing until her dreams would come true.

You were on your way home from delivering a simple sleeping draught to the Goldstein sisters (something to help Queenie sleep at night with her Legilimens) when you saw him. You’d seen him many times, truly, but you weren’t _looking_. He stood near to her, but his eyes were downcast. Shoulders slumped. You had been preparing to disapparate, but at that moment, he had raised his head, those eyes meeting your own, and you wondered if you’d forgotten to breathe. But before you could smile, his mother had shouted, and the interlude was passed. He jumped, and you frowned – ever so slightly – and passing behind a gentleman, you disappeared back home, safe from the Second Salemers.

But as you stood before the mirror above the sink, inspecting yourself, trying your best to slow your unsteady heart, you could not slow the unsteady thoughts racing through your mind.

_He was your age. He was your age. He was –_

Straightening your Peter Pan collar, you push the thoughts from your head, and continue on-wards with the day. It was before high noon, anyway, and there was plenty of work to be done before sundown. Even if it was the summertime.

* * *

 

Before too long, it’s coming onto wintertime, and the city smells of ice and cigars and the morning frost that whitens the tips of the flowers in their window boxes. Perhaps it wasn’t the inner romantic in you, but the realist who saw winter for what it was. It was the time of year when layers upon layers of clothes were worn, or, if you were rich, wore animal hides, and continued partying.

You had waited six months for winter.

Ever since laying eyes on the eldest child of Mrs. Barebone, you decided that it was your mission to find out about him what you could. You knew that you had promised yourself, and two government systems that you should keep your head down, to keep to your own business and nobody else’s, but you _had to_.

Another side effect of your magical abilities was a sort of transparency with knowledge of time’s events. No-Maj’s would call it ‘seeing the future’. You called it a nuisance at best, because who needs to know what they’re going to put on their toast in three weeks’ time? Who wishes to see their true love’s hair colour eight years or so before it would come to be? If the rules around hiding the magical community from the non-magical people weren’t so strict, you might consider being a fortune teller for spare coin.

Thus, you carried on watching the eldest Barebone child from afar. Sometimes you would catch glimpses of him in a crowd handing leaflets out, or in your mind’s eye near to midnight. But you would turn over in your sleep, and dream of things other than wishing that you could hold his hand through the night-time, to assure him the world was not composed of monsters.

It happened to be almost sundown one winter night when you found yourself alone in the presence of him. For the first time in six months, you had managed it, or at least, quite on accident. You had been running from a quite aggressive man who had insisted on paying you for… _less than favourable_ means of work, and it would come to be that you flew straight into him, knocking the flyers from his hands, the pair of you tumbling to the stone street.

“I’m ever so sorry,” he mumbles, hands scrambling to collect the flyers. He has good reason to, the stone pavement is covered in evening dew already, and the ink has begun to run over the paper. “I –,”

You shake your head. “It’s okay, I wasn’t looking, er, where I was – my goodness, you have beautiful eyes,” you mutter your thoughts aloud, and realising you did, feel a scarlet blush roar across your cheeks. “I’m sorry, that was forward of me.” Your hands reach to aid him picking up the flyers, only to realise his has stilled.

“I’ve seen you before,” he wonders aloud. “About the city.”

You smile. “I do love to walk, it’s one of my favourite pastimes.” At this, you wipe your hand upon your skirt, to him. “My name is _______ ________. I run a small apothecary on twenty-fifth street,” you gush, and pausing, leave room for him to speak.

“I’m Credence Barebone. I hand out flyers.” He looks to the ground, and sees the sodden, ruined papers. “I’m going to be in so much trouble…”

At this, you can’t help it. You know what kind of trouble he will be in when he goes home to the old church he has a bed at, yes, you’ve seen it in your head when you’re supposed to be sleeping. You’ve seen all the bruises and the pain he is in, the fear he quakes with, the mission he is on with the man from the congress.

He knows of magic, but he cannot know _you_ are magic.  

“Is that an eagle?” You point upward, to a sparrow flying overhead. His eyes follow, and in the second Credence is not noticing you, you cast a spell to dry the paper, still the runny ink, and gather the flyers in your hands. “No? I must need eyeglasses…well, I shan’t keep you here much longer,” you glance behind you, hoping the man chasing you has given up. “I must be on my way, Mr. Barebone.” You pass him the papers, and straightening your skirt, are on your way home.

Off before he can question why the dog-eared, worn papers are as good as new.

Off before he can question how you seemed so familiar to him.

* * *

 

As springtime follows winter, your mother returns home with her new husband to stay for a week, insisting on helping around in your business. It’s lovely having an extra pair of hands to help around, even if one of those hands is a man you barely know who spent years throwing a Quaffle for Texas’ Quidditch team. But your mother loves him, and he loves her, and you don’t mind much, especially since you’re often taking time to steal away and meet with Credence.

Often enough, the two of you sit in the park, watching as the children play in the trees, the parents watch their children, the ducks in the pond watch them all. Sometimes you take him to the library, and share moments behind the shelves – stolen kisses, passing phrases in bursts of bravery – or you walk him almost the way home from his route, doing your best to be caring.

He doesn’t mind being holding hands, and blushes fiercely when kissed, but Credence insists he can care for himself. You understand. As someone who everyone in the magical community knows to be something, you can only hope to make your own way forward. You aren’t going to steal that from Credence. It’s the only thing left of his that’s truly _his_. His pride.

There’s a bumbling stranger through the city and before you know it, the routine you had created for yourself and the man you have feelings for is disrupted, and the dark magic that surrounds the city picks up the pace, like a frightened child, battering and battling for dominance. Your mother leaves with her husband, and returns to their home before an attack happens just across the street from your home. If you were a frightened person, you would feel fear for what darkness was reigning. But you do not. There’s something inside the foresight you have that keeps you hopeful, keeps you ahead of the terror that follows the attacks.

Every moment with Credence is sparse. Few witches and wizards wish to purchase your goods, for fear of the punishment of the dark magic that follows in the shadows. You resort to selling most of your things to keep the lights on, and then, using candlelight. Though springtime is a rebirth, you’re sure that the birth is not of young forest creatures, but what magic is leaving its mark in New York city this year.

“If my mother knew I saw you,” he whispers, fingers faint against your wrist. The pair of you sit upon the steps to the library, in the shadows from sight. You had cast an invisibility spell on the pair of you, but still, he wished to be obscured from sight completely. “…she would bring hell upon us.”

Your hands trail to his elbow, pulling him near. He smells so lovely, his scent a mixture of soap and something that smells like the colour _blue_ that’s so completely Credence. You are the same age, and he is a No-Maj. You’ve fallen in love with a man who can never know of what you are…and still, here you be.

“She will have to find out, first.” You whisper. “We are careful. I cover our tracks thoroughly, she would have to be a hellhound to find a trace of what we do,” you lay your head upon his, and close your eyes. “I think I love you, Credence.”

His head turns, slightly, so you can see his eyes. Oh, those eyes, they’re so beautiful, they could see straight through flesh, through souls if only they learned how. The dark brown is mellow, and soft, almost, and melts you inside and out to feel as sweet as chocolate.

“I don’t think I love you,” he mumbles, his fingers moving across your wrist. You still, but he adds, “I _know_ I love you.”

* * *

 

It’s autumntime now, but the city is still reeling from the bumbling stranger who had a suitcase of creatures. It isn’t the British man who is at fault, no, it is the radical Gellert Grindelwald, and because of his actions, as posing as Percival Graves in MACUSA, all the No-Maj’s in the city are obliviated, and Credence is gone.

You’ve searched high and low – far, and near, talking to his sisters, but not a soul has seen Credence. It has been six months since you have seen his form, since you have kissed his lips, since you have called his name to his face, and not to strangers who cannot remember him. The congress has little to say, and remind you to stay quiet as a condition of you living in a No-Maj area. So, you pack your store into a magicked box, buy yourself ride out of the city and travel to the countryside where people are sparse; magical, or not.

But it’s autumn, and the leaves on the trees are falling from their positions on high, and you build yourself your little apothecary store in the upstate country, in a hamlet called Beaver River. Your mother has more children of her own, and sends few owls. But she’s happy. You live your life as good as you can, and the other wizarding families in the area welcome you into the circle. For once, you’re accepted. It’s nice.

But the thought of Credence keeps you awake at night. You dream of a wisp of smoke, a tendril of darkness floating through the air, struggling though the breeze. You see his soul, but not his face, you see his pain, but not his hands, those calloused fingers you can almost feel from memory.

But come early on Monday, the first knock on the door to your home is not someone you’ve met out away from the city. At once, you throw yourself to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders, drawing him close, near, near enough to hear the beat of his heart. He’s not in his monotonous suit, but in clothes that seem to be borrowed from someone else; the sleeves are too long, the overalls too loose on his waist. But he’s here.

Your Credence is here.

“I know what you are,” he whispers. “I’m supposed to be one too. But…I’m different.”

Withdrawing, you look to his eyes, holding him close enough to stare back into your own eyes. “You’re magical? You, you knew I was –,” you don’t finish the sentence.

Credence nods. “You’re beautiful at it, but I’m not an idiot. An eagle in the city?” He recalls, a soft smile upon his lips. “I’m here, to stay. If you’ll have me, _______.”

You nod, and realise there are tears falling from your eyes. “I’ll have you Credence, forevermore.”


	2. Phases

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Any time of the day, any day, Credence Barebone is beautiful, and, he is yours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bonus chapter, from a request. Enjoy!

The morning after Credence came, the sunlight spills onto his pale face through the window, filtering orange through the autumn leaves surrounding your little house. You had come from your bedroom, just awoken, and the sight of the handsome young man stilled your feet and caused your eyes to linger upon his sleeping face, his still form. You’d never seen him at rest like this, but he slept, perhaps every hour he had lost in his lifetime. You remember setting up the lounge for him before sundown, and now, when it’s seven, twelve hours later, he sleeps on.

You leave him to rest and move to your small kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Today is a Sunday, and the No-Maj’s in Beaver River take this day to abstain from work. You didn’t quite understand, but like the other wizards and witches in the area, followed their ways to blend in. Even if you weren’t in your little apothecary today, you would be harvesting the last of your herbs before the wintertime, preparing to dry them, and preparing potions for sale.

The smell of your hens’ eggs wafts throughout the house, and as you seat to eat, Credence wakes. The small clock you hang beside the window says it’s now eight o’clock, and he wanders to the table where you have served a portion for your guest.

You settle your fork upon the table, and meeting his gaze, intertwine your fingers with his. They’re cool, like his pallor reflects his heat, and he blinks from the fog behind his eyes. A smile graces his lips. It’s small, but it’s there.

“Sorry,” he says, quietly. “I’m off in my head.”

Your thumb brushes over his knuckles. “It’s okay,” you reassure him. With your other hand, you return to your breakfast. Like braille, there’s still raised scarring over his skin on his hands. You’re not sure if Credence has tried to heal his scars, or even wants to, but you know a potion that can smoothen out all injuries on skin. “Everything takes time.”

He hums in agreement, and picks at his meal.

* * *

You find him a week later at midday, laying amongst your perennial flower garden. It’s starting to be colder out, but there he is, wearing the clothes you purchased with him at the general store. His brown eyes are closed, arms out, palms toward the cloudy sky. His slacks will be covered in grass stains.

But you’re not following him around, not trying to pester him to wake up one day and be better. He lived through such abuse and such torture that you could never fathom what it had done to his spirit. No, you’re hanging the washing on the line strung between the house and your tiny woodshed, and pegging up the bedsheets to dry, you hum a tune you can’t quite put a finger to.

Just as you’re trying to hang the fitted sheet a breeze pushes through from the underworld itself, and the material slips through your fingers. It soars through the air, and gathering your skirt in your fists, you chase after it. You try to cast _accio_ , but wandless, everything your outstretched hands are pointing toward comes toward you – bark, stray leaves, the wheelbarrow. You manage to dodge the wheelbarrow, but still, the bedsheet escapes.

But then it’s still, a white linin rectangle mid-air. If you weren’t a witch, you’d think it unnatural, but then again, you didn’t cast the spell which stilled the runaway sheet.

You glance behind you, to see Credence. He’s sitting upright, now, eyes wide, face flushed with embarrassment, or, perhaps exhaustion? He blinks, and regarding his hands, then returns his sight to the sheet. _Oh!_ you realise; _he did it_.

“I – sorry,” he says.

You don’t mean to laugh, but you do, anyway. It sounds like the laughter you remember of the pixies you found when you were eleven, airy and carefree, stunned, and stunning. “Don’t be sorry – you’re honestly fantastic, Credence, oh, thank you!” you shout to him. First, you gather the sheet from where it’s frozen in the air, and ignoring the wet material, or any of your senses, you barrel toward him in your flower garden. You stop, however, at the lip of the garden bed, and on your knees, you look to him, stars in your eyes, “Has anyone ever told you that you’re the bee’s knees?”

He shakes his head. “I never had anyone who thought I _was_ the bee’s knees,” he replies.

You hesitate, but taking the risk, you lean forward, and kiss his cheek. “Well,” you say, leaning back on your knees, looking at Credence’s blushing face, “now you do.”

* * *

In the evening luminosity of the sunset, Credence’s hand glows in the dusk as he turns the key to your apothecary. It marks the end of the day in more ways than the fading sun over the horizon – today you had many a No-Maj in your store, one wanting a remedy for her husband’s cold, another wishing for a way to clean the water in the well. Credence had followed you to your work today; usually he stayed in your home, reading what little literature you had – Agatha Christie mysteries, Hemingway, an assortment of poetry – but when you rose today, Credence had already awoken, and asked to come.

You weren’t used to the company, but, it was wonderful. When the store was quiet, you would usually sweep the dust from the corners into the pan and sing a tune under your breath as to not be embarrassed if a customer would come in mid-song.

But with Credence, you worked through the orders you had gotten from the week previous, mixing and casting in the back room, Credence dusting the shelves. He rarely spoke when Mrs. Turnbolt, a half-blood witch came at midday, but she spoke enough for the silence to be filled. Her daughter, Dorothy, looked to you both with a questioning gaze – almost wondering what you, an unmarried witch was doing with a man in your house. But the Turnbolt’s left shortly after you administered their speciality spell, and no questions were asked.

But now, locking the door, Credence hands you the key. It’s a heavy brass thing, something you paid a nice sum for, as well as the real estate for your apothecary, and you tuck the key into your pocket. Usually you apparate home, but today, you think twice about it.

It’s been a month now since Credence found you in Beaver River.

His pallor improves with every day; it’s like he’s slowly coming out from the shell of his trauma. He likes it when you make the dishes wash themselves or have the knitting needles knit a scarf by themselves. But he doesn’t like performing magic, well, except for that occasion when he helped you with the runaway bedsheet in the backyard.

Usually, you wouldn’t be upset about not being able to apparate. But it’s the cusp of winter, now, and the air is frosty, the dirt roads are tipped with ice, and the breath that escapes the both of your lips tastes frigid. _But Credence_ –

He turns to you, rubbing his hands up his arms. You bought him a jacket, made of the material that the workers around here use to keep warm when felling trees. It’s perhaps too big, and a shade too dark for his complexion, but to you, you wouldn’t change a thing.

“Do we walk home now?” Credence asks, looking to your satchel.

You place a hand on your bag. It’s enchanted with a spell you learned at school, which makes the inside as large as anything you wish. When you first cast the spell, it had the ability to contain an entire baseball field, which, was incredibly heavy. But since, you’ve honed your skill, and it is light as anything, and slightly less spacious.

“We could,” you say, but opening your bag, you grab your broom. It’s a bit old, but it’s the same one you used to play Quidditch on when you were at Ilvermorny. “Or we could fly.”

Credence’s eyes become as wide as saucers, “Won’t we be seen?” he whispers. You shake your head, and wandless, you cast a disillusionment charm upon the pair of you. “How do you fly?” he asks. It’s then you position the broom beneath Credence, and it gathers him onto the forefront. Mounting the rear, you slide your arms over the wood and kick the broom into flight.

You expect him to be frightened, or angry for the lack of explanation, but when you look to him instead of the route you’re taking back home, you see his face is caught up in an air of glee.

“Are you okay?” you ask, shouting over the wind.

He only laughs in response.

* * *

The neighbour’s cockerel crows at midnight. This night, however, along with the crowing of a confused bird, there’s a soft knock upon your bedroom door. You have trouble sleeping in the colder months, always either too cold to move a limb, or too warm in your bedsheets, and because of this, you can never find sleep easily in the wintertime. You push yourself from the mattress and walk to the door over the uneven floorboards.

When you open your door, Credence is there.

In the moonlit light of the room, you see the silvery trails of tears that have fallen upon his cheeks, his pleading eyes, so dark and so sad. Without processing a thought, you wrap your arms around his frame and gather him near.

You don’t ask what’s wrong. You know what’s wrong.

It’s everything he never spoke about, it’s ever lashing, every supressed thought and feeling, every moment in his life that he felt terrible or unnatural, and it’s escaping through his tear ducts. He cries, and he cries, and he cries until his chest is heaving and his body creates hiccups which rack his form even more. But you cling to him, draw him closer, close enough so your hearts can beat as if they are one, so some of his pain could be taken by you.

It’s a while until when he can speak, and all he says is, “I’m sorry.” It weighs your heart that he needs to apologise, but you know those two words to him are everything he wished he could have gotten from those who had harmed him. They’re freeing words – and once they escape on his breath, Credence pauses.

“It’s okay now,” you say quietly, wiping your fingers under his eyes, wiping his growing hair from his face. Together you stand in the doorway to your bedroom, and softly, you repeat your words, “It’s okay now.”

Credence nods. “It is, isn’t it?”

You place your forehead against his, and whispering, you utter, “Forevermore.”

**Author's Note:**

> If you have any requests, find me on Tumblr at @susiephalange, or [@phalangewrites](https://phalangewrites.tumblr.com/request_conditions) ʕ·ᴥ·ʔ✿


End file.
